For Hector Berlioz, the production of his Requiem, or more
properly, Grande Messe des morts (hereinafter referred
to for convenience as GMdm) was the result of a long gestation
and a comparatively short delivery. A Messe Solennelle
composed around 1825 had met with mixed reactions at its various
presentations, and Berlioz ultimately burned the work, while reserving
the Resurrexit movement, which appeared to him worthy of
salvation.

In a letter of 3 July 1831 to his friend Humbert Ferrand,
Berlioz described his idea for a sacred oratorio, Le Dernier
jour du Monde, describing the day of judgement; it was his
intention to have Ferrand provide a suitable text.1 This plan
never reached fruition as such, but in Berlioz was planted the
seed for his GMdm.

It was on 8 March 1837 that the exiting Minister of the Interior,
M. le Comte Adrien de Gasparin, made formal request of Berlioz
to compose a large-scale work to be performed at the services
commemorating the seventh anniversary of the July Insurrection
of 1830. The formal written commission, however, was delayed by
bureaucratic proceedings, and Berlioz was to suspect double-dealings
by partisans of Luigi Cherubini.2 Cherubini was at that time the
Director of the Conservatoire, and evidently considered that if
a solemn mass were to be performed at a state ceremony it ought
to be one of his own. The commission was finally granted, and
Berlioz composed the GMdm in great haste, rushing the autograph
manuscript to the copyists and advancing much of his own money
to the performers in order that it be properly rehearsed.

Further political complications ensued, however, when the
French government defaulted on its plans to present music with
the memorial ceremony, and Berlioz was left with little chance
of seeing his work performed, as well as with heavy debts for
rehearsals and copying.

On 13 October 1837, General Charles Denys de Damrémont,
with the French forces in Algeria, was shot through the heart
at the engagement accompanying the capture of the town of Constantine.
The Ministry of War decreed a memorial service at which a Requiem
Mass might be appropriate, and Berlioz soon had the backing of
the Minister of War, General Simon Bernard, for a performance
of his GMdm at Les Invalides. Bernard informed Berlioz
that, since this was a state function, the performance would have
to be conducted by François-Antoine Habeneck, a conductor
somewhat familiar with, but not sympathetic toward, Berlioz' earlier
compositions. Berlioz agreed to this (presumably accepting this
trade-off so that he could get his music performed, pay his fees,
and pay his debts), and the first performance of the GMdm
was given, as part of the memorial service, at Les Invalides on
5 December 1837.

This admittedly sketchy relating of the circumstances surrounding
the origin, commissioning, writing and preparation for performance
of the GMdm should be supplemented by the interested reader
in the various standard Berlioz sources, including Berlioz' own
Memoires in Cairns' English translation and with Cairns'
further speculations, Barzun's monumental Berlioz and the Romantic
Century, and Jürgen Kindermann's Foreword to the GMdm
in the New Berlioz Edition (hereinafter referred to as NBE).3,4,5
It is sufficient to this survey to indicate the background of
this striking composition, and to offer as well a brief description of it:

The Grande Messe des morts is in essence a setting
in Latin of the Mass for the Dead. Indeed it is not quite that,
for Berlioz has altered and reordered the original text to suit
his musical and dramatic purposes; an analysis of the extent and
specifics of these alterations has been undertaken by Cone.6 If
we are to note the objection by Robertson to this "juggling
and mangling of the texts," it may at least be held in full
conscience that even if Berlioz' resultant production is not a
pure Missa pro defunctis, at least it has fulfilled his
one-time aim of a sacred oratorio on the Day of judgement.7 It
is significant that of the work's ten separate movements, fully
five are settings from the Sequence of the Dies irae. Barzun's
description of the movements is worth noting:

The first gesture--Requiem and Kyrie--opens with a brief orchestral
introduction, a repeated rising scale in the strings. . . . This
is followed by the main six-bar theme for basses on the words
Requiem aeternam, soon taken up by the other voices and varied
throughout chromatic and modal effects derived from the initial
scale. In the midst of the agonized, sweeping movement of despair,
the episodes of the Te decet hymnus and Lux perpetua contrast
hopeful calm with an anxiety which returns in the awesome Kyrie
on repeated notes. The voices end on a quiet dissonance and the
graver strings close with a recall of the solemn opening.

The second part is the renowned Dies irae employing the four
brass choirs and timpani. . . . The movement is built on three
phrases of liturgical cast which cross and recross, surge and
develop three times in three tonalities, each time with more fervor,
thrice punctuated by rising tremolo scales on the strings. At
the climax of the third scale, the fan fare bursts forth in melancholy
grandeur, overlapping successively from the four corners of the
orchestra, where the additional brass (trombone, cornet, tuba
and trumpet) have been placed. . . .

After such a climax which, musically speaking, is prepared
from the beginning of the first movement and not merely
from that of the second, the danger was to fall into bathos. Berlioz
entrusted the actual words Tuba mirum spargens sonum to
the basses in unison, seconded only later by the other voices
in canonic imitation, and so preparing a soft close on Mors
stupebit et natura. . . . In this third portion [i.e., Quid
sum miser], the plaintive melody is interwoven with the first
phrase of the previous Dies irae in a short but moving
confession of man's weakness and humility.

In the following number, Rex tremendae majestatis, a solemn
invocation interrupted by some unfortunate passages in quick tempo
turns gradually into a renewal of anxious supplication. The full
orchestra again gives intimation of destruction, after which calm
reigns once more and leads to the touching six-part a cappella
prayer Quaerens me.

The sixth and longest [sic] movement, the Lacrymosa,
contrasts within itself the previous moods of a fated end and
an unquenchable hope, and it does this in a manner which is not
equally pleasing to every listener. The six-bar tenor melody,
underlined by a strongly rhythmic figure in the orchestra, suggests
awareness that "the day of weeping when man shall be judged"
is an inescapable reality. . . . But the tenor phrase soon generates
a variant in a more lulling rhythm that some critics find too
reminiscent of an Italian aria in waltz time. . . .

After the duple Lacrymosa comes the high point of the
work in its meditative aspect. The Offertory, which Schumann said
"surpassed everything" is one of Berlioz' great inspirations.
On two notes, A and B flat, Berlioz fashioned a figure that the
chorus of souls in Purgatory repeat unchanged throughout, while
the orchestral accompaniment, treated in fugal style, weaves noble
arabesques around the chiaroscuro plaint. At once a tour de force
and a model of economy, this number must, like many of Berlioz'
happiest productions, be quite familiar by ear before all its
qualities emerge.

To balance the deliberate iteration of the Offertory, Berlioz
then gives us a brief and sharply etched Hostias, which
contains another musical "find"--the harmonic-orchestral
idea of flute-and-trombone chords. Using the lowest (so-called
"pedal") notes on the trombone and continuing them with
treble flute tones that seem like upper resonances of the original
sound, Berlioz punctuates the short liturgical phrases for male
voices in a manner at once striking and apt. The sense of space
derived from the range of pitch and the isolation, as it were,
of the human voice seeking to placate God, are felt even if they
do not come to mind through words.

Again to avoid monotony, the Sanctus (No. 9) introduces
a tenor solo, which is a good example of Berlioz' original harmonic
gift. Its soaring line over enharmonic modulations has a quality
of "golden sweetness" unlike that of any other idiom
in music. The melody is interrupted by a vigorous Hosanna
fugue of sizable dimensions, after which the Sanctus proper
is resumed, to be followed by a reprise of the fugue in free form.
[It is worth pointing out, though Barzun does not mention this,
that Berlioz did not set the words "Benedictus qui venit
in nomine Domini," which properly should come between the
two occurrences of the Hosanna setting.]

The final number, Agnus Dei, brings us material we
have already heard in the first movement and in the Hostias.
Having taken his usual pains to make the Requiem "one
work" by smooth transitions and frequent thematic recalls,
Berlioz evidently designed for the end a recapitulation that would
further clinch unity. But hounded by the Ministry and by his copyists,
he had no time to fashion this conclusion in the Te decet hymnus,
but one can imagine the richer and more complex finale in his
own polyphonic style which he might have written, given time.
By a further change, the score of the Requiem is the only
one that Berlioz did not hold back for revision before engraving,
since Schlesinger offered it for subscription immediately after
the performance. When a second edition became possible, years
later, Berlioz wisely did not touch the substance, cast in an
irrecoverable style, but simply improved the Latin prosody.8

Some more recent scholarship casts a different light on the
subject of Barzun's closing remarks. The appendices in Kindermann's
NBE demonstrate a number of alterations, affecting phrase
lengths and numbers of measures in many of the movements, between
the draft and the autograph and Schlesinger's 1838 edition, and
between that edition and the Ricordi 1853 edition (with the Brandus
1852 edition of the choral parts).9 Furthermore, Braunstein's
measure-counting of the individual movements "discloses a
striking picture. . . . Two parts in 3/4 time (Introitus [Requiem
et Kyrie] and Agnus Dei) frame those in common time
and one in 9/8 [Lacrimosa] forms the center. The combined
measure total of parts I-V [603 measures] equals that of sections
VII to X which gives the work a remarkable symmetry."10 Braunstein
indicates as well that the Lacrimosa contains 201 measures,
but fails to note that this is also one-third of the combined
totals of 603 measures for the groups of movements preceding or
succeeding it. If a numerological approach, so often undertaken
with regard to the sacred works of J. S. Bach, were to prove that
these measure totals were part of Berlioz' conception, it would
throw new light on Barzun's apparent feeling that Berlioz did
not have time to express his actual intentions on paper.

Features of the Berlioz Style

In his description of the GMdm movement by movement,
Barzun has touched upon some aspects of what might be called the
"Berlioz style." In this work Berlioz has made much
use of contrasting moods and instrumental settings, not merely
from one movement to the next but even within the movements themselves.
It is true that the solemnity of the Requiem et kyrie is
offset by the sweetness of the settings of "Te decet hymnus"
and the warm setting of "luceat" at measures 159-60;
and again, the return to solemnity with the unison settings of
"Kyrie eleison" alternate with the more anguished chromatic
"Christe eleison," which in turn recalls the falling
chromatic lines in the original "Requiem aeternam."
In the superstructure of the work as a whole it can be seen that
the Requiem et Kyrie is contrasted in turn by the Dies
irae (including the Tuba mirum, which it serves as
a prelude). The Dies irae, with its famous outburst of
four brass bands, sixteen timpani, and numerous drums, tamtams
and cymbals, is then followed by the intimate Quid sum miser
with its sepulchral scoring for low double reeds, low strings
and male chorus. The ensuing Rex tremendae, which Barzun
finds too disjunct in its contrast of majestic and vigorous passages,
is actually a compilation of moods accompanying the meaning of
the words; it is not without reason that Berlioz has reordered
the Sequence to suit his dramatic needs, so that the description
of the majesty of God may be contrasted with the sinners' plea
to be saved from damnation. Passages of great joy alternate with
supplications, and if Barzun has found these alternations unsatisfactory,
it may be because he has heard performances in which the unity
of the movement was sacrificed to the overemphasis of these contrasts.
This sort of problem is precisely that which the conductor of
this score must anticipate!

The bustling and ultimately exhilarating Rex Tremendae
is followed by the most subdued Quaerens me, a six-part
unaccompanied vocal motet, in which the chorus pleads for supplication.
Note that Berlioz has indicated that this movement be taken in
the same (basic) tempo as the preceding movement, an obvious point
of unification; and the jarring minor seconds on "acribus"
in measures 52-55 of the Rex tremendae are mirrored briefly
by the more poignant minor seconds on the tenors' "Ingemisco"
at measures 31-32 of the Quaerens me. The basses' unison
chanting beginning with "Preces meae" at measure 42
in the Quaerens me is a point of similarity to the "Kyrie
eleison" of the first movement.

In many ways the Lacrimosa is indeed the central movement
to the work. Barzun called it the longest, which is not true either
in terms of number of measures, nor of duration (at least, in
any of the twenty recordings surveyed); but Braunstein's observation
of its central position in terms of meter and measure-length division
may offer some clue of its dramatic standing in the scheme of
Berlioz' dramatic structure. Certainly the 9/8 meter, the only
such compound meter in the work, is significant, particularly
if we do take at face value the numerology of Berlioz' meter choices,
in which case the fact that nine equals three times three becomes
an obvious point in Berlioz' design. Consider the concluding Judex
crederis of the Te Deum of 1855, also chiefly in 9/8
meter. Then again, the Lacrimosa is the last movement in
which pain and suffering are referenced (the following Offertoire
being, in Berlioz' words, "choeur des âmes du purgatoire"--chorus
of the souls in Purgatory, as though in Dantean terms the narrator/observer/celebrant
has already passed through Hell and is on his way to Paradise);
it is the last movement utilizing the extra brass bands as such
(though trombones appear in the Hostias, and trombones
and tubas/ophicleide in the Agnus Dei), and the last movement
wherein Berlioz allows for the expanded chorus; it is the last
movement with any really extended outbursts of fortissimo;
and, lastly, in contrast to all of the other movements of the
GMdm, it is in perfect, unadulterated, textbook sonata
form. All of these great "lasts" and unique qualities
indicate it as a dramatically important focus.

After the Lacrimosa, the contrasting moods to the end
of the work are more blissful and subdued. The Offertoire
bears another unique feature of the work, the A-B Flat choral
ostinato over an orchestral fugato of greatly changing character,
until the end when transfiguration is obtained and the chorus
breaks into parts on a D major chord with subsequent polyphonic
passages on "promististi, Domine Jesu Christe!", and
a major-second (A-B natural) version of the ostinato is the closing
"Amen."

The Hostias offers the unusual trombones-and-flutes
chords described by Barzun as the "musical 'find,'"
and this movement serves as prelude to the blissful Sanctus,
where Berlioz uses a solo voice for the first time in the work.
Where in the earlier stages of the GMdm contrast was obtained
through starkly differing moods, tempos, and volumes, here Berlioz
continues to offer contrasts, but they are based more on differences
in tonal color and instrumentational approach. The collected cymbals
which crashed at the end of the world in the Tuba mirum
(just prior to the re-entry of the four brass bands), and at the
climax of the Lacrimosa, here return pianissimo possibile
with the bass drum at the same dynamic marking, pointing up the
delicate orchestral and vocal coloring of the passage.

In the present author's opinion, the proper approach to the
Berlioz style lies in the knowledge of these contrasts and similarities,
and their proper usage for the dramatic and spiritual effect of
the whole. A conductor might, upon examining the score and finding
these intriguing effects of texture, color, harmony and rhythm,
determine to play each for its maximum to the point of grotesquerie,
and thereby lose the feelings of unity and balance which are so
crucial to the form of this work.

The Grande Messe des morts contains much which interrelates
with other of Berlioz' compositions. Some of the brass writing,
for example, is handled similarly to passages in such works as
Roméo et Juliette and Les Francs-Juges Overture;
the string writing has family resemblances to that in Harold
en Italie, and the Symphonie fantastique; and the contrasting
wind choir writing in parts has its parallel in much of Berlioz'
oeuvre. Then, too, even so remarkable a device as the A-B
Flat ostinato in the Offertoire has its corresponding passages:
the one-note choral ostinato through part of the convoi funèbre
de Juliette in Roméo et Juliette is one, and
the B-C ostinato in the marche des pélérins
from Harold en Italie, despite a wider register shift,
is another. Clearly an understanding of Berlioz' other works (nearly
all of which have literary bases, or at least allusions) would
be indispensable to the performance of one work. Since the Grande
Messe des morts is a composition of notable individuality
and delicacy of emotional balance, it stands to reason that this
of all Berlioz' compositions would benefit best from a performance
by a performer--which is to say a conductor--particularly conversant
with Berlioz' musical language.

One of the aims of the present research, therefore, is to
indicate where, among the performances cited herein of the GMdm,
the project has been undertaken by a conductor with such a broadly-based
affinity for the music of Hector Berlioz. If this is in fact a
prejudice of the present author that Berlioz is best performed
sometimes by his advocates, it is hoped that some of the evidence
and arguments which lead to this conclusion will illustrate this
phenomenon.